


What lies beneath

by kate_the_reader



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Established Relationship, Lingerie, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 10:20:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8201753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: Arthur has kept the stockings Eames gave him, which he wore to show Eames. One day, it's time to wear them again.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a direct sequel to [stockings](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7401265), which I wrote for Inception Bingo. It will read better if you read that first.
> 
> A very big thank you to mycitruspocket, who was an enormous help. I could not have finished this without her.

In Arthur’s underwear drawer, at the back, behind the neatly rolled pairs of briefs, black and marled-gray, is a pink bag. _The_ pink bag, the one Eames had brought him that day, when he had shown another side of himself to Eames and Eames had taken the step they’d both been wanting to take for so long.

Arthur sees the bag when he puts away his laundry.

He often runs his fingertips over its shiny surface, smiling. But he doesn’t take the bag out of his drawer. He doesn’t open the bag, stamped with the Agent Provocateur logo. He doesn’t take out the things within. 

Until one morning, he does. He blushes a little, at the memory. And at the scent that rises faintly. These things have not been laundered. They were not worn for very long. A musk rises from their folds, or perhaps that is just a memory.

Arthur is alone in the room. Eames is away. He has been gone for weeks. Long, aching weeks. 

But Eames will return tonight. He will fly in and he will be here, in this room, with Arthur. Tonight.

Arthur puts the bag on the bed and crosses to the closet. The suits hanging neatly there give him the same pleasure they always do and he spends several minutes choosing.

A dark suit, or a pale one? 

A pale one. 

His hand hovers over the bar his ties are draped on. He selects a deep red one, smiling at the memory of opening the bag that came in, when Eames had returned from a previous trip. His shy smile as he had watched Arthur. The relief in his eyes when Arthur had exclaimed over it. The look he gets every time Arthur wears it.

He takes the gray suit out of the closet and drapes the tie over its shoulder. Lays the suit down next to the pink bag.

From his dresser he takes a white shirt with fine gray stripes, wrapped in the tissue paper the Chinese laundry returns them in. Nothing like professional laundering to achieve the crisply starched perfection he so loves.

He goes back to the closet to select shoes. Black, plain, highly polished.

Finally, he starts to dress. He takes his time. Stepping into the small black “knickers”. Smiling at the memory of that conversation.

He steps into the garter belt, settling the lace over his hips, twisting to get the suspenders hanging down perfectly. He glances in the mirror on the inside of the closet door, left open.

He sits down on the edge of the bed, one of the stockings bunched in his hand, and reaches down to slide it over his foot, up his calf, past his knee, all the way up his thigh. The lace top stands out against his skin. He smooths his hand up his leg, feeling the roughness of his palm catch slightly. Takes the other stocking, repeats the action. 

He stands then and fastens the suspender clips and pauses to really look at himself. He considers snapping a photo, sending it to Eames.

But he shakes himself and turns away to unfold his shirt, turning back the tissue and flicking out the folds. He shivers a bit as he slides his arms into the crisp, cool sleeves. Does the little buttons up slowly, hiding the lace.

He takes the jacket off the hanger, slips the pants off the bar, shakes them out.

Oh yes, these don’t take a belt. In the closet a pair of gray suspenders hang over another bar. He takes them out and fastens them to the buttons inside the waistband. He steps into the trousers. As he pulls them up, his black legs are hidden.

He tucks his shirt firmly at the waist. Fastens the fly buttons (Eames isn’t the only one with a fondness for vintage tailoring). He pauses to glance in the mirror again, turns to look over his shoulder. The bumps of the suspenders are visible under the pale fabric. As he intended.

He picks up the tie, flips up his collar and forms a neat knot. He bites his lip, his mouth darkening.

He sits on the bed again and slips his feet into his shoes. They feel loose, cool, with his feet clad in the fine stockings. It’s an odd sensation, unexpected.

He crosses back to his dresser, selects cufflinks from the dish. Plain silver disks.

He pulls the suspenders up over his shoulders, settling them smoothly over his shirt, leaving no wrinkles.

Finally, he picks up his jacket, shrugs into it. It does not hang low enough to conceal the bumps of the clips on his thighs. 

He takes one last look in the closet-door mirror. There are spots of color on his cheekbones. His feet slip slightly in his shoes as he walks out the door.

As he drives to work, his pants legs catch slightly on the stockings. He can feel the hard suspender clips under his thighs against the seat. It’s not really uncomfortable.

He parks and takes the stairs to the office two at a time. As he enters, his colleagues turn to look, speculation in their eyes, but he ignores it.

All day, Arthur is aware of the slight drag of the stockings, the faint discomfort of the clips, the inconvenience in the bathroom (he steps into a stall). He can’t help the smile he feels on his mouth all day.

But finally, the day is done. Eames’s plane is landing at 6pm. Normally, he wouldn’t go to meet him, instead waiting at home, the TV on as he cooks dinner. Wiping his hands on a dish towel as he hears the key in the lock.

But today is different. 

A look of delight unfolds on Eames’s face, crinkling his eyes, turning up his mouth, as he walks through into arrivals and sees Arthur standing there. 

Arthur steps forward, feeling a little shy, somehow. Eames drops his bag and throws his arms around Arthur. The woman walking behind him huffs in annoyance, then smiles as Eames pulls Arthur close and kisses him.

Eames slides his hands down from Arthur’s waist, over his ass. 

And his eyes widen as he feels the bumps under Arthur’s trousers.

“Oh darling,” he whispers.

Arthur pulls back slightly. He can feel the blush spreading, but he raises an eyebrow and reaches for Eames’s hand.

In the car, Eames rests his hand on Arthur’s thigh as he drives, his thumb playing over the suspender clip. He hasn’t said anything more about what he can feel there, but does not stop smiling.

“Do you want to go get something to eat?” Arthur asks.

“Bloody hell, Arthur!” says Eames, his voice rough. “No! I want to get home as soon as possible so I can … unwrap you.”

Arthur glances at him and takes his hand off the wheel, drops it over Eames’s hand on his thigh.

“Oh really?” He tangles their fingers.

“Yes, really. Stop driving so carefully, would you,” says Eames.

At the house, Arthur climbs the steps in front of Eames, looking back over his shoulder at him. “Come along,” he says.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” says Eames, grinning up at him.

Arthur pauses at the door and Eames jostles up against him, his lips pressing behind Arthur’s ear, his warm breath sending a shiver down his spine.

“Hurry up!” he says.

Arthur relents and unlocks the door, stumbling slightly as Eames’s weight pushes him across the threshold. 

“God, finally!” says Eames, dropping his bag, reaching out for Arthur and slipping a hand around his waist, under his jacket.

“Oh yes,” he says, “Suspenders! Double suspenders! Oh, love …”

He slips his hands up Arthur’s chest, pushing at his jacket.

“Careful,” says Arthur.

“Take it off, Arthur,” says Eames, his voice low.

Arthur shrugs out of the jacket, turns to hang it on a coat hook in the entry. Eames runs his hands from his shoulders, down his back, over his ass, down the back of his thighs. “Arthur,” he breathes. He pushes the suspenders off Arthur’s shoulders and turns him back around.

“God I missed you. I thought of you all the time. It was stupid, I couldn’t focus.”

Arthur lifts a hand, runs the back of his fingers down Eames’s cheek, rough with stubble. Eames reaches up and grabs his wrist, stops his hand. He turns his head and kisses each finger. 

“I missed you too. Don’t do that again,” says Arthur.

“Work? Oh Arthur,” says Eames. 

He closes his other hand on the knot of Arthur’s tie, tugs it down a bit, but he doesn't take it off. He sets his hands at Arthur’s waist, pulls him closer. Their hips bump and Arthur can feel Eames is just as turned on as he is. 

Eames pushes him back a bit, undoes the top button of his pants, slips his fingers in. And smiles when he brushes against the lace of the garter belt. 

“Same one?” he says.

“Of course.” Arthur pulls Eames closer again, hand on the back of his head, licking into his mouth.

Eames slips his hands round his ass, pushing under the lace, under the elastic of the knickers.

He leans back, undoes the rest of Arthur’s fly buttons, pushes his pants off his hips. They drag against the stockings as they fall. Eames crouches down and slips Arthur’s shoes off, cradling each foot and lifting it out of his pants, pooled on the floor. He presses his lips to the arch of Arthur’s left foot. 

“Oh god, Arthur,” he breathes. “Why today?”

“I missed you,” says Arthur again, his hand on Eames’s shoulder for balance. 

Eames looks up at him, soft. He bites his lip. “I’m sorry.”

He kneels and presses his face to Arthur’s crotch, his breath warm. Arthur’s hips stutter.

“Eames,” he says, “stop, slow down. Not here.”

Eames breathes open-mouthed against Arthur’s erection, tilts his head back.

“No?”

“No.” Arthur runs his thumb across the back of his neck, pushing his fingers into his hair, grown a little long over the weeks. “Come. You’re still dressed. Why are you dressed?”

“I couldn’t wait to unwrap you, darling,” says Eames, getting to his feet and crowding up against him again. “Still got a way to go,” he says, tugging the knot of Arthur’s tie down some more. He undoes the knot, slips the top shirt button open, pausing to press his mouth into the space before undoing the rest of the buttons. He pushes the shirt open and steps back. 

“Oh darling,” he says. 

Arthur stands against the wall trying not to feel awkward. He did this for Eames. Dressed himself like this to show Eames.

“Well?” he says.

“You must know, darling. Didn’t you look in the mirror?”

“Yes, I did. I almost sent you a picture. But I thought I’d surprise you instead.”

“A picture?” says Eames. “A picture? Arthur, may I?”

“Alright,” says Arthur. Eames pulls out his phone.

“Here?” says Arthur.

“Bedroom. Light’s better.”

In the bedroom, Eames stands him against the wall near the window. Evening light slants in. 

“Like this?” 

“Yes, just like that.” 

The gray-striped shirt is open on Arthur’s chest, the tie hanging loose. 

“Okay,” he says, “But hurry up!” 

Eames snaps a picture, glances at his phone, smiling. He steps forward and slips his other hand up Arthur’s chest, brushing over his nipples. “Take this off now?” he says.

Arthur undoes his cufflinks and slips the shirt off, lets it fall, kicks it aside.

He looks back up at Eames. “Like this?” 

“Yes, exactly like that. Darling. Thank you.” 

Eames takes one, two, three photos. Slips his phone back into his pocket and reaches for his belt.

“Quick, come here,” says Arthur. “Hurry up, Eames!”

He fumbles at Eames’s shirt buttons. 

Eames gets his pants open, lets them fall, hopping slightly as he takes his shoes off. Arthur pushes his shirt off his shoulders, runs his hands down his chest, into his briefs. He pushes them down, freeing his cock, and Eames pulls them off. Arthur gets his hand on Eames. And that is something he has missed, all too acutely. He licks his lips.

Eames shudders and kisses Arthur, hard, maneuvering them towards the bed. The touch of Eames’s big, delicate hands is another thing he has missed. He sits on the bed, Eames kneels astride him, not settling his weight down, but nudging their hips, their cocks, together. 

Eames pulls at the edge of the knickers. “Will you keep these on?” he asks.

“If you want,” says Arthur. Eames pulls them down. They are trapped under the suspenders and they feel weirdly constricting on his thighs; he’s not sure how he feels about that. Eames reaches for Arthur’s hand, stretching for the lube on the nightstand.

“I want you to fuck me,” he says. “Wearing it all.”

“Anything, just let’s get on with it,” says Arthur, twitching his hips up, desperate for more. He opens his hand, flinches at the chill of the lube Eames squirts into it. Eames drops the bottle and leans in to kiss him again as Arthur rubs his fingers together, trying to warm it.

Eames puts his hands on Arthur’s waist and shifts him up the bed, still straddling him. His hands slip to the lace at Arthur’s hips, brushing lightly as Arthur reaches round him. Eames’s eyes fall shut, dreamy, as Arthur teases gently at his hole.

“Ah, darling,” he murmurs. “Christ, I missed you!”

“Mmhmm,” Arthur can’t form words, lost in the sensation of having Eames’s body under his hands again, eager for him, inviting him in. He slips a fingertip in. Eames groans, his forehead falling to touch Arthur’s, his breath gusting against Arthur’s open mouth. 

“Arthur,” he whispers, “Arthur, Arthur …” 

He rises on his knees, sinks back down, allowing Arthur in just a little more. Arthur wants to go slow, to give Eames time, and he wants to go fast, it’s been too long without him, and he’s been half hard all day, with anticipation and the strange feeling of the stockings. He shivers at the thought.

Eames notices. “Darling?” he says.

But Arthur can’t articulate any of this now, so he strains forward, kissing Eames again and slipping another finger inside him. His intake of breath is sharp. 

“Did I hurt you?”

“No, just, please, now!” Eames pants, turning his face to the the side. “Christ, Arthur, I can’t …”

“Yes, now,” Arthur soothes, “Now.” He works his fingers, feeling Eames relax.

He leans back, reaching for a condom, rolls it on, places his hands on Eames’s hips. “This okay for you?” he asks. 

Eames is frowning, his lip caught by his crooked tooth. He nods. Sinks down on Arthur.

Eames leans back and runs his hands up Arthur’s thighs, the callus on his trigger finger catching on the delicate fabric. He is looking at Arthur with a hungry, intent gaze. He reaches the tops of the stockings, curls his fingers under the lace. But he doesn't try to drag them down. He smiles. “So beautiful,” he says. 

He looks away, over to the closet. Arthur realizes he left the door open and it is angled to reflect them on the bed. _Oh_. Eames’s broad back, decorated with his ink, contrasts with Arthur’s slender, stockinged legs.

He looks back at Eames above him, his strong thighs flexing, and draws his knees up, braces his feet on the bed, arches up to meet Eames, clutching at his shoulders. To be inside Eames after all this time apart, is overwhelming; Eames has taken over all his senses. 

His hands are on Arthur’s hips, over the garter belt, his fingers running over the lace, the wide span of them anchoring him. Eames leans back, making the suspender clips dig into Arthur’s thighs.

Eames looks over at the mirror again and back at Arthur beneath him. 

“Arthur … “ he breathes.

And it is his intense focus that undoes Arthur completely, pushing him over the edge. He pulls Eames down to his chest as he comes, he needs his full weight to stop him from shaking apart.

When Arthur stills, Eames sits back up, his hands on Arthur’s shoulders. He drags them down Arthur’s chest, back to the lace. Arthur reaches for his cock, feeling for the lube with his other hand. Strokes, loving the feel of Eames.

Eames is too wound up to last, he comes over Arthur’s chest and stomach, never once breaking eye contact.

And this is really what Arthur has missed the most. He has missed Eames’s company, his touches, his kisses, his mouth, his voice; he has missed touching Eames, missed the feeling of him surrounding Arthur in every way. But what he has really missed is the way Eames looks at him. The way Eames sees him, sees even the parts Arthur is uncertain of.

Eames rises on his knees and climbs off Arthur. He drags his fingers through his come on Arthur’s stomach, and, still intensely focused on Arthur, pulls the lace garter belt down from his hips. He opens the clips and rolls the stockings down, easing them off Arthur’s feet and tossing them on the floor, and returns to take off the garter and the little black knickers. The elastic of both garments has left red marks on Arthur’s skin; Eames bends down and kisses the welts, licking and soothing.

Arthur is reluctant to let him go, but Eames fetches a warm washcloth and tenderly cleans Arthur’s skin before settling back in the bed and pulling Arthur to his chest.

Arthur wakes at midnight, warmer than he’s been in weeks, now that he has Eames back in his bed, a solid wall of heat. He stretches and leans against Eames’s back, turns over and traces the ink on Eames’s shoulder, following his fingers with his mouth. Eames stirs, looks over his shoulder and smiles sleepily. He flops onto his back, pushing his knees up under the covers, and Arthur follows, now mouthing at the patterns on his chest.

After a few minutes, Eames whispers: “Thank you”.

“For what?”

“For that, for those … for showing me. For sharing that.”

Arthur pushes himself up so he can look at Eames in the dim light cast into the room by the streetlight. 

“I don’t know what … I’m not sure what … Eames. I don’t know how I felt about it. How I feel about how you … seemed to feel.”

Eames pushes himself up against the pillows, his entire attention focused, no hint of sleep left.

“Shall I tell you what I felt? And then you can tell me what you feel?”

Arthur nods and sits upright. He is cross-legged, his knee nudged up to Eames’s side.

“Damn, love,” laughs Eames. “No grown man should be able to do that!” He reaches for Arthur’s hand.

“When I saw what you had done, in the airport, I thought back to that day. As you wanted me to?”

Arthur nods.

“How you were so brave, how you took the chance I had been wanting to take.” He brings Arthur’s hand to his mouth, kisses his knuckles, keeps it pressed there. His next words are muffled. “It’s not the stockings, you know.”

“What do you mean? You love the stockings.”

“I love that you put on the stockings. I don’t have a thing for stockings as such.”

“Huh,” says Arthur. “Well, I don’t either, I don’t think. But wearing them was … interesting. I was conscious of them all the time.” He draws their joined hands to his chest. “They kept me focused. And I did really like putting them on.”

He leans down and kisses Eames. “I could do that again.”

“Really darling? Would you? I haven’t seen you put them on.”

“But Eames, what about me wearing them in bed did you like?” Arthur says.

“It’s hard to explain. I liked how they felt, to me.”

“Mmm,” says Arthur, “I liked that too.”

“I like the way the lace looks against your skin. It’s beautiful. Look, I’ll show you.” He reaches for the nightstand. “Oh bugger, my phone’s still in my pocket!”

“I’ll get it,” says Arthur and unfolds himself from the bed. While he’s up, he goes into the bathroom to pee and get a glass of water.

He brings the phone and the glass back to the bed and hands them to Eames, gets back in next to him.

“Thanks, love,” says Eames, drinking the water and unlocking his phone. He tilts the phone so Arthur can see. It’s the picture of him still in his shirt. He has an uncertain frown. But he tries to look without judgment at himself. Eames slides his hand up Arthur’s thigh, he has a soft look on his face.

“See, Arthur?” He swipes to the next picture. “Can you see what I see?” 

What Arthur sees is the way the lace defines his hips, the way the black stockings make his legs look longer. He thinks he looks younger, vulnerable.

“But is it that I look younger and slighter in them?”

“You mean did I get off on you seeming small and delicate and me astride you, you fucking me?”

Eames puts the phone down and faces Arthur, turning his head with a hand on his chin.

“No! You seeming younger or weaker or whatever doesn’t do it for me. You _never_ seem like that to me.

“What I really liked was that you had dressed yourself like that to show me. To remind me. It was so … private. And you wanted me to see, before, as well, in public. 

“But bloody hell, Arthur, I’ve been missing you for weeks. You could have been wearing dirty sweatpants and I’d have been just as turned on!”

Arthur can’t help smiling. “Yes, I did want to remind you of before. I don’t really know why today. But I missed you and every time I saw that bag, I thought of that day.”

Eames slips his hand round the back of Arthur’s head, draws him in and kisses him. 

“So we agree,” he says, “we like the stockings mostly for what they remind us of?”

Arthur nods.

He lies down again, curled in towards Eames, and sleeps.

The next day, at breakfast, Arthur says: “You can keep the pictures of course, but I like it better when you look at _me_.”

Eames picks up his phone and swipes through his pictures, showing Arthur. There’s one of him frowning over a newspaper, one of him asleep, one of him at the firing range, aiming his Glock with a fierce look in his eyes.

“Of course I’d rather look at you, love. But sometimes you aren’t there and so I keep bits of you here,” he says. 

“Well,” says Arthur, “so do I.” And he snaps a picture of Eames with a dab of jam on his mouth.

Later, he launders the garter belt and the knickers and puts them back in the pink bag. He’ll need new stockings.


End file.
